YOLT, the hyperactive trio of David Grollman, Nathaniel Morgan, and Weston Minissali is consistently driven by histrionic character and incongruous comedy. After already having witnessed David strip down to a sporty thong, waving and yelling, “Are my shorts too short?!” I owned the smirking breed of assurance that grows in knowing that absurdity is forthcoming. But I was not prepared for what they did to A Night of Clutter.
At A Night of Clutter, the audience revolves and gets lost. When YOLT played, the 5 people that happened to be in this room over the 20 others felt as arbitrary as stumbling upon an extraordinary sushi restaurant in North Dakota. YOLT killed the lights. All we witnessed were surges of red and blue guiding Weston’s synth. A packed audience invigorates, but playing for 5 when no one nearby realizes the euphoria of what’s transpiring creates conviction, notation that is special. You are reminded that the most remarkable experiences in life are hidden. You stumble upon them in shock. On Saturday, YOLT was not bombastic but instead rushed with seriousness, evoking the most somber sentiments I have ever felt in live music. As should always be the case with good art, they supplemented this performance by waving an open umbrella through the pitch black, caressing the pores of the five sets of eyes peeled open in static ritual. Energy ceased to circulate, became a single hum, eerie and opulent like an entire house covered in moss.- Valerie Kuehne